Rebel Souls
by inhereforthecookies
Summary: John Watson is an undercover rebel, infiltrating the British military to uncover their secrets and stop their raids on the Rebellion. The job was dangerous enough before he met the adventurous Sherlock Holmes, who seems determined to get them killed at every corner. Rated T for probable violence in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**__ This story takes place in an AU World War II-era Britain, where the government resembles that of the government in V for Vendetta. I am not bashing the UK, Britain, or the respective governments, etc. etc. etc. I don't own Sherlock, etc. etc. etc. Any resemblance to any people, living or dead, is probably accidental but who knows. (;_

John Watson looked at himself in the cracked, dingy mirror. The uniform wasn't perfect, but it was a pretty good match. His prematurely grey hair was tucked under a black plastic hat, and his perfectly polished boots were laced tightly around the brown trousers, which were of course over two pairs of socks. It was actually his uniform from when he had fought for the British army, when he had still thought that his beloved government could do no wrong. He had modified it a bit, to take off his honor patches and replace them with patches from his new fake regiment. He didn't feel comfortable in it; he didn't feel like himself. But then, that was the point, wasn't it?

While he was in this uniform, he was no longer John Hamish Watson. He was Private Jonathan Winchester, of the British Peacekeeping Force. "Peacekeeping," of course, was a diplomatic term for "search and destroy," and the target of the destruction was the New British Rebellion, the militia for which John was actually a soldier. His was a stakeout mission, and his only task was to obtain information about attacks and warn the others before they happened. There had been too many surprise airstrikes, too many good men and women lost. So the Rebellion had decided to do something about it, besides fire futile shots at the metal planes. It was dangerous work, but he knew that he could do it. Of course, he would never admit to the high that he got off of it.

He walked out the door and marched towards the newly renamed Peace Plaza, formerly Buckingham Palace. A whipping post, gallows, and stocks had been recently erected on the front terrace, not yet stained with the blood of innocent men. Guns and bullets were more efficient, of course, but public whippings and hangings were a show of power, a way to keep people control under fear. For it wasn't just the New British Rebellion that wanted change in the corrupted country. But not many other citizens would admit to it, out of sheer fear of the British government. John used to be one of those people, until they shot his pregnant wife, Mary. That was the day he decided that something must be done, and that he would not simply wait around for someone else to do it.

He saluted the officers at the door, and strolled inside. The halls were as ornate as ever – the gold and red floors polished to perfection, the marble and iron statues gleaming. But there was one distinct difference: instead of being primarily a place of residence for the Queen and her family, the castle was now a base for the British forces, and desks lined every corridor and empty space. People bustled around, carrying contracts, orders, and press statements. Others carried weapons, standing guard or patrolling, making sure no one who wasn't allowed got into the building. The citizens of Britain were kept strategically uninformed, and sometimes intentionally misinformed, and if they were to find out the information contained within these walls, all hell would inevitably break loose. Sooner, rather than later.

His mind went on a sort of autopilot. Up, up, door, third hall on the left, second door on the right. But halfway through his route, he got caught up in a stream of soldiers running downstairs. Not one to miss out on action, he followed them, keeping pace with the younger, more agile men. In the grand hall, there was a commotion going on, between two officers.

"You're working for the rebellion, aren't you! You're one of them!" The shorter, stockier officer yelled, pushing the other, taller officer in the chest.

"Are you mad, Trull? How could I work for them, I spend all of my bloody time here covering your arse!" The taller one yelled, his black, or perhaps just very dark brown, curls flying out from under his black beret as the hat hit the floor.

The men decended into unintelligible shouts and insults, pushing and shoving at each other but neither of then daring to take the first swing. Until the short one flung his arm around, knocking a vase into the taller one's face. Finally, another officer decided to take action, pulling the two apart and yelling for them to just shove it. The other men around John dispersed, no longer entertained by the tussle. John stepped forward, and helped the taller man up off of the floor. He could see blood coming from his lip and possibly his nose, but the man did not seem phased by it. He gave John a calculated look, and smiled.

"Hi. I'm Sherlock Holmes. I see you're my kind." He said, and John raised an eyebrow.

"Um, yes, sir, I am a soldier, if that's what you mean. Private Jonathan Winchester, at your service." He said, hoping his new acquaintance didn't catch the slight hesitation in his voice when saying his name.

"No you're not. Your first name is John – you stumbled on the last two syllables. Your last name likely begins with a W but is not Winchester – there hasn't been a Winchester family in London in nearly a hundred years. Furthermore, the patches on your uniform are hastily sewed, not the work of a government factory." John's heart nearly came out of his throat, and he was considering running for the nearest exit.

"But the biggest indication of your false identity is that awfully dyed grey hair, obviously not a professional job. But not to worry, I won't tell the authorities. We're all in this together, after all." He said, and with a smile, quickly flashed the band of red Henna ink on his wrist, the mark of the Rebellion.


	2. Chapter 2

John's heart beat even faster, if that was possible. He tried to compose himself, but he could tell that his face was only getting more red by the second. "Right. Well, Mr. Holmes, would you care to step out for a spot of tea with me?" He asked, his voice making the statement more of a command than a request. He marched towards the doors of the palace, smiling and saluting the guards once again as he walked out with the taller man. His mind worked quickly. Where was close by that he could talk to this man, alone, without fear of being caught or recorded? Certainly not anywhere near Peace Plaza, that was for sure.

He walked down a few blocks, and into a seemingly abandoned alley. It was only 7:30 in the morning, and since curfew prohibited anyone who was not in the military and not a shopowner from being out between the hours of 8 p.m. and 8 a.m., there weren't very many people about. He pulled the man, who had surprisingly followed him, into the damp walkway.

"What is your problem, can't you tell I'm bleeding, Private?" Holmes asked, "I should be in the infirmary right now!"

"Oh please, the infirmary doesn't take bloody noses. Go to them when you get shot in the leg." John retorted, and he could swear he felt a pang from the scar on his thigh. "If you had ever actually been in the army, you would know that. You've never even set foot on a battleground, have you?"

"Nope. Battle isn't for me. I much prefer games of logic over shows of brute force." He said, rather cheerfully considering the situation. John took a deep breath, and did his best to not explode at the man. Of course, John never really exploded. He was more of the silent but deadly type.

"So tell me, Holmes, how did you get to officer ranks without ever doing anything to get there?" He asked. He had agreed, along with other members of the Rebellion, that it was safer to stick to lower ranks, at least for the time being. Trying to jump in with the officers, with limited forged documentation, was risky and stupid.

"Well, you see, my brother, Mycroft - no, you haven't heard of him, I assure you - is very high ranking in the government. He has the power to appoint anyone to a position, especially when that person is a well-known consulting detective." He said, and produced a business card.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Consulting Detective_

221B Baker Street

Westminster

John looked at it, and gave a confused look. "What the hell is a consulting detective?" He asked. Holmes sighed exasperatedly.

"I'm a detective, that consults for people. What is so hard to comprehend about that?" He asked, throwing his arms up. "It doesn't even matter. Because the real question right now is how that thick-headed Trull found me out." He said, instantly snapping into a more serious, more focused tone. His eyes became intense, and he tented his hands under his chin. John could almost see the gears turning in his mind. "There's the band, of course, but no one outside knows about that. At least as far as we know. Of course there is always the possibility that he was just making wild guesses, accusing everyone that he didn't get along with. The Peacekeeping Force has become a witch hunt these past few months, after all."

John, though he was frustrated and confused, was also now very fascinated. The taller man bounced around, pointing and "hmm"-ing like an excited puppy. "AHA!" He finally exclaimed, startling John. "The papers, of course! How could I be so dense?"

"Papers?" John asked, not sure if he really wanted to know.

"I was delivering papers last week as a part of a side job I'm doing - getting a little information about a client's unfaithful husband. I introduced myself to the man as Kevin. Trull lives near there - he must have seen and assumed that was my real name!" Sherlock Holmes looked at John, apparently very happy with himself. John looked at him blankly. "Don't you see, John? He didn't actually find me out, he just thinks he did! Oh, this is fantastic! As long as he thinks I'm working for the enemy, he'll never guess I'm working for the enemy!" He laughed, and his smile could have lit the entire city.

John grinned. "Incredible." He muttered, shaking his head.

"Not incredible, elementary." Holmes said, dismissing all of his happiness he had held just a moment ago. The man had a rather extreme personality, John could tell.

"Well, either way, what you're doing is dangerous. And we can't take that kind of risk." He said, trying to make his voice sound authoritative. He was a great leader… around people that he knew.

Holmes seemed to not hear him, but suddenly looked at John urgently, and John got a horrible feeling, as though what he was about to say was a matter of global security. Or worse, his personal security.

"Do you need a flatmate?" The man suddenly asked, with an intensity in his voice.

John started to shake his head. "No, I uh- I live al-"

"Of course you live alone. Your hair is unkempt, your fingernails are dirty, and you cook for yourself - there's an oil stain on the sleeve of your undershirt. It's obvious you don't have a wife." Holmes interrupted. John's chest fell, as he remembered that he was, indeed, unmarried. "I'm not asking if you live alone, I'm asking if you would like to live with someone." Holmes clarified, his eyes meeting John's for the first real time.

"Uh, sure, yeah. Yeah I guess it would be safer that way. Everything is safer in numbers these days." He replied, and people started to shuffle out of their houses and go about their day.

"Great. Wonderful. Meet me at that address at 5 p.m. Don't be late!" Holmes yelled over his shoulder, as he shuffled off with the crowd, reassuming his duties as a soldier.

John looked at the card again. The world was going to hell, and he was making friends with a man who seemed to not care at all. _Oh, Mary. What have I done._


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** _This chapter is a short flashback, explaining John and how he got into the rebellion. There will be a few more of these as the story progresses, but I'll always leave a little note like this so you don't have to worry about getting confused. _

Two years prior to that fated meeting of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, but on the same street on which they had made their meeting, there was a night robbery of a very wealthy man's house. Not much was thought of it; it was a city, after all, and crime was simply a part of life when you lived in a city. No one guessed that the break-in that night would start a war that changed the course of history.

Soon, the robberies were happening every night. They never seemed to happen to poor people, or even middle-class. Only the very wealthy, and mostly members of government, were stolen from. Many of them increased their security, but the bandits moved like smoke, in and out of the houses before anyone knew what had happened. Scotland Yard was baffled, and though no one wanted to say it, they knew that it was only a matter of time before the government took action.

The sanctions were harsh from the beginning. Anyone caught out between the hours of 8 a.m. and 8 p.m. without a permit would be put in prison for a minimum of a month, no questions asked. Anyone with "a suspicious amount of valuables" in their possession without a good excuse was sentenced to six months in prison, and stripped of all valuable items, even those that they could prove they owned. Then, Lord Haslam was found slain in his kitchen, stabbed to death in a botched robbery.

The laws got worse. Anyone caught with any kind of weapon, no matter how small, was automatically imprisoned for a month and fined £500. Anyone with any handbag or messenger bag not required for a government job was fined £1,000 and had their bag and all belongings confiscated. All cars not required for government purposes were banned. Then the separation of classes came, and it became illegal to walk in a neighborhood where you did not live or work. Between the number of people in jail, the higher tax rate to support the Peacekeeping Force, and the ever-declining state of the global economy, it became nearly impossible for families to support themselves. Not just in London, either; the entire island had been affected by the strict legislation.

So, the government took action again, and set up Relief Centers, where secretaries working for the Peacekeeping Force determined, based solely on looks, how much aid you they thought you deserved. Businesses were slowly bought out by the government, under the guise of a bailout system. Soon, nearly all families lived in government housing and had jobs owned by the government. The housing was substandard at best, and most people weren't even paid close to what they made before the relief program. The only people thriving from the system were government officials. Anyone who dared to disagree with the system, was shot. Families attempting to escape the country were shot or imprisoned, and anyone suspected of helping them was shot. The Peacekeeping Force, once a laughing stock, became something to be feared.

Enter stage right, the New British Rebellion. What started as a few guys having a pint and bitching about the government after work had grown underground into a force nearly two thousand strong. John had heard rumors of them, and there had even been a skirmish in Bath that everyone swore was started by the Rebellion, but he knew that it was safer to just obey what the authorities said to do. It wasn't the best life, but it was survival, and with a world war going on, survival was good enough for him.

On June 3rd, 1943 at 4:53 p.m., Mary Elizabeth Watson was seven months, three weeks, and one day pregnant. She and John lived together in apartment 3f, which was a great luxury in the ten-story walk-up. She was arranging the nursery, folding a tiny onesie, when they came in. John, who had been listening to the radio, was behind them, screaming something that Mary couldn't understand. She screamed, assault guns in her face.

"Where are the fugitives?!" One of the men at the front yelled loudly, stepping closer. A tear sprung from her eye.

"Fugitives? We don't have any f-" Suddenly, there was a round of fire into the newly painted walls. All of her hard work! She stood up, heaving her giant belly. "There is no one else here!" She yelled. The men kept firing, and suddenly, there was a spray of blood on the crib. Mary looked down, at the red hole in her chest.

The men stormed out, unknowing and uncaring, and John stormed in. He screamed, and caught his wife as she fell to the ground. He held his hand over her heart, blood pouring over his hand. "Mary! Mary speak to me! Mary!" He yelled, tears streaming down his face. He cried into her warm neck, still screaming for her to say something.

Two days later, at Mary's funeral, a man approached John as he walked back to the black carriage provided by the funeral home. He made small talk that annoyed John, who just wanted to get home and sleep for the rest of his life. "Well, if you ever want to start a new career, call me." The man said with a smile, and slipped John a black business card.

Rebel Souls

76 Lancaster

Brighton

7 p.m.

John slipped the card into his coat, smiled obligingly at the man, and rode off into the sun, dismissing the idea immediately. But when he got home, he took another look at it. He had nothing left. No Mary. No child. His apartment was only a dark memory. What did he have left to live for?

That night, John joined the New British Rebellion, and he never looked back.


	4. Chapter 4

To anyone that wasn't Jonathan Winchester, his job seemed exceedingly boring. He wasn't on the front lines, he wasn't torturing rebels for intel, he rarely even left the Plaza during the day. Jonathan's job was to proofread and edit every briefing, order, and press release that went through the Force. John thought that it was a grand waste of his years of medical training and practice. But Jonathan was not a doctor. He was an English Language major with a background in creative writing. And while John would agree that the job wasn't the most exciting, it was a great help to the Rebellion.

Because every printed document had to be edited, John saw every move of every soldier, officer, and clerical assistant in the Force before they did. He knew where the raids were going to be, and could get his men to safety before they happened. He knew what weapons the patrolmen carried, and knew how to make them useless. He also knew where every supply train went, and exactly what it carried and when it would stop for long enough to nab some rations or weapons off of it. France had unwittingly been a great supporter of the Rebellion.

In the three months since he had taken the job, John had been able to minimize casualties and maximize efficiency within the Rebellion. There were still skirmishes caused by rogue patrolmen, and there were still innocent people being killed simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But this was war, and as John had learned all too well, war meant that innocent people died.

At 5:00 p.m., Big Ben tolled there was nearly an audible sigh throughout London as anyone who did not work in a shop or restaurant clocked out. Shops and restaurants were allowed to be open for an additional four hours, and opera houses and other entertainment outlets were allowed to be open until ten. Of course, the only people that got to enjoy the extra leisure time were officers of the Force or members of the government, and anyone who was not in either of those groups caught after 10:30 p.m. was immediately arrested. But still, the allowance made the tyranny seem more like normal life.

John had left at 4:30, complaining that he felt a cold coming on. He had gone first to his apartment, in case anyone was tracking him. Then, he had taken the underground staircase to _ street, and from there had taken the train to Baker Street. It was quite a distance from John's apartment, which meant that it was also in a much nicer neighborhood. His apartment building was working-class, double-income families who made just enough to scrape past the poverty line. These people, though they were obviously not rolling in money, definitely had more expendable income. A bakery called _'s made the whole street smell like sweet apple pie and cherry tarts. John sniffed the air, and felt his stomach grumble. He made a mental note to stop by after this meeting, and see if he might be able to afford a small sweet. Mary had always loved sweets.

The door to 221B Baker Street was painted a bright, nearly obnoxious, blue, and had gold lettering so that no one could mistake it for anything except the house it was. John swallowed as he stood on the cement doorstep, and hit the plain gold knocker three times against the door. There was a beat where nothing happened, and John feared that maybe Sherlock Holmes was setting him up for a trap. But then, an old woman with electric blue eyeshadow and very red lipstick opened the door. John got a sense that she was younger than her years. "Erm, hello madam. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, timidly but with a smile. The woman smiled back at him, and ushered him in by the arm.

"Of course, of course! Always nice to see Sherlock invite company over. Though the number of male callers that he gets is sometimes worrisome. Just once, I'd like for him to bring home some nice girl…" The woman rambled on, apparently oblivious that John had no interest in the number of male versus female callers his potential new flatmate had. The woman gave him a look. "Of course, I don't judge though. Free to be you and me, I say!" She said with a laugh. They rounded the stairs and another door greeted them, this one a plain oak brown. "SHERLOOOCK! YOU'VE GOT COMPANY!" The woman yelled at the door.

It flew open, and there stood Sherlock Holmes, looking rather disheveled for 5 in the afternoon and wearing an expression that might have sent a flock of ravens running if they were to see it. Although maybe the harpoon was what really would have sent someone running. "Mrs. Hudson," he said, rather calmly considering the look he was giving her, "If you could do your best to NOT SCREAM AND LET THE ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD KNOW!" He boomed, and slammed the door. He reopened it a second later, sans harpoon and with a more pleasant expression. "Right. John. Come in." He said, re-slamming the door after John had entered.

The flat had the look of one that used to be very nice, but had been degraded by years of neglect. A thick layer of dust settled on the many trinkets, and the only things that seemed to be cleaned regularly were the violin in the corner and the chair that faced the small, green kitchen. The entire flat could use a new coat of paint, as well as some new curtains and carpeting. But it was still a sight better than John's, which had become a sad, neglected shadow of what it was just a year earlier.

"Of course, if you are to move in, I'll add another chair for you and Mrs. Hudson will take care of…" He waved his hands around and scrunched his nose, as if to mean the entire unclean state of the apartment. "Your bedroom is the first door on the left, and it has bedding but honestly I wouldn't use it if I were you. Will you be bringing any furniture?" He asked.

John thought of the cracked mirror, the metal frame bed, and the couch with two cushions and a support beam missing. "Er, no. No I don't have any furniture." He said, with a tight smile.

Sherlock grinned widely. "Great, so when can you move in?" He asked, as he plopped himself into his chair without an ounce of grace or poise. He swung his legs over the arm of the chair and crossed his feet, raising his eyebrows, obviously expecting an answer from John.

John thought. He could have moved into the flat in three hours, as all of his clothes and worldly possessions were contained in two drawers in his dresser. But his pride got the best of him, and he wasn't going to tell Sherlock that he owned almost nothing. "Erm, how is sat-" He started, before Sherlock bounded up from his position and landed nearly in the kitchen.

"Lovely, tomorrow it is. I will have a car meet you at 6 p.m. Mrs. Hudson will get everything ready." He yelled the last part, ostensibly so that Mrs. Hudson could hear him. John found himself wondering what, exactly, their relationship was.

He nodded, and mumbled that yes, tomorrow would be fine. Not for the first time that day, John wondered what on earth he was getting himself into.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** _Adding a bit of canon inspiration into the story. Can you tell who is in the car? (;_

The next day, John stood outside of his building at 5:50, carrying a large box with one more sitting on the sidewalk. In them were four shirts, three pairs of pants, three pairs of knickers, one jacket, a full-size bedsheet set, a pillow, and a photo album. Everything that John Watson had to his name, contained in two boxes. Anyone else might have thought it sad, even pitiful. But John was not one to dwell on how sad his life was. Indeed, if he was, he certainly would have driven himself mad long before he ever met Sherlock Holmes.

Precisely at 6 p.m., a sleek black car rolled up, and John immediately felt under dressed. Miniature Union Jacks waved from each corner of the car, and the man that stepped out to put John's measly luggage in the trunk was dressed in a tailored suit and black bow-tie. He opened the door for John, and with a smile and a nod, John stepped in.

"So, you're the one moving in with Sherlock." John looked over, and saw the man sitting next to him. He was slightly heavy set, with a top hat and cane. His voice reminded John of the voice of villains in the cinema.

"Er, yes." John agreed. He really had no idea what else he could say; he wasn't even entirely sure who this man was, and he certainly wasn't going to trust anyone in the government. Even if Sherlock did know him. The car lurched forward, and began the journey from _ to Baker Street.

"Well then, Jonathan. I am prepared to make you a very lucrative offer. You live with Sherlock, and tell me his every move. Who he talks to, where he goes… whatever you can find out." The man said, his face still mostly hidden in the shadows. John raised one eyebrow. Surely he couldn't be serious. "And in return, I'll pay you 300 pounds a week."

John actually considered his offer for a beat. 300 pounds was more than he made in the Force, and was more than enough to cover his living expenses. It was more than he had made in a long time. "Why do you have such an interest in Sherlock?" John asked, looking out the window at the passing people.

The man paused, and John could see his lips purse in the darkness. "Let's just say… I have a personal interest in his welfare." He said slowly, turning to face John. "He is important to me."

John again raised an eyebrow. That wasn't an explanation, that was a front. He knew there was something that the man was not telling him, and John couldn't take any chances. No matter how good the money. "No." He said.

The man looked taken aback, but still wore a tight smile. "No? What do you mean no? I just offered to pay you double your salary, for nothing more than an exchange of information." He said, and John could feel the man's eyes boring into him.

"I mean no. Thank you." John replied, his voice stronger now. The car stopped in front of 221B. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go." He stepped out of the car without waiting for the chauffeur, and grabbed both boxes from the trunk. As he stood on the doorstep, the car drove off, slowly merging and blending in with the evening traffic. The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson greeted John much the same she had the day before. Well, John thought, at least there would be one constant while living here.


End file.
